


The Final Dance

by PanBoleyn



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: American Civil War, Multi, Ptolemaic Egypt, RMS Titanic, Reincarnation, Tudor England
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 05:20:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15656589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PanBoleyn/pseuds/PanBoleyn
Summary: Four times their relationship ended in tragedy, never the same way but always the same. This time, will things be happier or will it simply be a different tragedy?





	The Final Dance

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted here in 2010: https://fae-boleyn.livejournal.com/8515.html

_Now it's time_

_No turning back_

_All is on the line_

_Here it is_

_The final dance_

_One last chance..._

 

 _Devil take the hindmost_  – Devil Take the Hindmost Quartet, Love Never Dies soundtrack

 

**25 November 2011, Austin, Texas**

 

It took thirty years for Arthur to get to this point, for him to finally understand what he'd been walking towards his whole life. Four times that he failed, and now this time things would be different. He was different, he was someone who could stop what had always happened before. Which had led him to this, to taking on their most recent enemy alone, and to be brutally honest, succeeding only in making sure the other two were safe by dying for them. Arthur knows Eames and Ariadne are never going to forgive him for this.

 

But that's all right. At least they'll still be alive this time. Unlike all the other times... Maybe it was selfish, but he'd rather be the one to die than the one to be left behind this time. He didn't want to die, but he'd take his own death over theirs. He couldn't go through that again, it had been too often already. And while logic would dictate that they would have all survived if they'd handled this together, well... Arthur has the memories to prove that fate (something he would prefer not to believe in but really has to) is not on their side in this. So, given the choice...

 

They'd pissed off a mark, but he wouldn't find Ari or Eames. Arthur made sure of that, since luckily neither of them are around right now. Ariadne's visiting her family, and Eames is on a job, paying back a favor to someone. Arthur's certain he buried their identities, leaving himself as the only one who could be found, bait to distract the mark long enough to be sure his hard work would pay off.

 

He'd still planned to outrun them, but he'd finally miscalculated. Leaving him sprawled on the floor of an old factory, trying to breathe around two ribs he's sure are broken, not to mention various other injuries. Apparently they  _really_  pissed this guy off, and he likes to toy with his enemies.

 

There isn't much bleeding from external injuries, but Arthur's feeling weak enough to suspect internal bleeding somewhere. His head is spinning, and his mind is scattered, he can't seem to focus long enough to think about a way out of this. All he can think of is places, lives lived and loves lost. And how he couldn't do a damn thing to stop it.

 

He's not aware of what's really around him anymore, so he doesn't hear the gunshots, or feel it when someone shakes him, screaming his name and trying to wake him up. Memories spin in his head, dragging him down into darkness.

 

And then there's nothing at all.

 

* * *

 

_I would have loved you anyway_

_I'd do it all the same_

_Not a second I would change_

_Not a touch that I would trade_

_Had I known my heart would break_

_I would've loved you anyway_ – I Would've Loved You Anyway by Trisha Yearwood

 

**15 August, 30 BC, Alexandria, Egypt**

 

Three days. Three days since the Queen had died, and though Olympos knows he ought to be mourning the loss of one of his oldest friends, he also knows that she would understand that  _her_  death has barely registered with him yet. He can't think about Cleopatra, cannot grieve for her when he is already drowning in loss.

 

He had not thought to lose them both. Rhys, he had been prepared to lose ever since the defeat at Actium. They had all known that Octavian would come to Alexandria, and that Rhys, as one of Antony's bodyguards, would be in the thick of battle. But Iras... Who would have expected that Cleopatra would commit suicide, and that her closest companions would go with her?

 

Well, no, that isn't fair, and Olympos can admit that to himself, even now. Actually, it's no surprise that Charmian and Iras would go with Cleopatra. The three of them had always been inseparable, from the age of five. He himself hadn't met the girls until they were seven and he eleven. Or rather, he had met Cleopatra then, at a banquet for the Roman general Pompey. It would be another three years before they met again, before his eyes were drawn to the dark-skinned beauty on Cleopatra's right.

 

Iras was one of Ptolemy Auletes' bastards, as was Charmian and so they were half-sisters to Cleopatra. They were the children of slaves, Iras' mother a Nubian and Charmian's a northern barbarian. And it was in their look, in Iras' warm brown skin and frizzy curls, Charmian's sleek blonde hair and pale blue eyes. He liked Charmian, but Iras had always been the one to draw his attention.

 

She would ask him about his studies, knowing that even then, he hoped to be a physician. He would talk to her about what it was like to live in the palace, so close to Cleopatra and therefore right in the middle of the danger. Because the Ptolemies were a dangerous family to belong to. When Auletes fled to Rome to get their help in pacifying his angry populace, his elder daughters, Tryphaena and Berenice, stole the throne from him. Then Berenice had Tryphaena poisoned. Through all of that, Cleopatra kept her head down and tried to avoid the notice of those in power. The only people she could lean on were her sisters. Olympos didn't know who Charmian went to for support, but Iras came to him.

 

They kissed for the first time when Iras was sixteen and he was nineteen, finally almost certified to practice medicine, at least as an assistant. It was almost chaste, light and over quickly, but he knew that her deep brown eyes, staring into his, would forever leave a mark on his soul.

 

The two of them were together through so much, just the two of them. Cleopatra's ascension to the throne, her being deposed by her brother Ptolemy and younger sister Arsinoe, and of course, the fateful alliance with Caesar. Olympos was one of the few who knew that the story of the carpet was indeed true – many assumed it to be an exaggeration, but it had actually happened just that way.

 

They were with Cleopatra, sister and close friend, through the birth of her son Caesarion, and he was one of the first to see them after their return from Rome, after Caesar's death. Through everything, Olympos and Iras had shared a quiet romance. Neither of them saw a need to marry – Iras would not have been able to stay as close to Cleopatra if they did, and there was no point when they were already committed to each other.

 

But then came Antony, and Rhys with him. Rhys, who the Romans called Lucius, was a northern barbarian by birth, with light brown hair and eyes the color of storm clouds. He'd been given the “chance” to serve in the military, and after twenty years his life would be his own. Olympos, who had never been drawn to a man before, had felt his breath catch in his throat the first time he looked into those eyes.

 

And so had Iras, She was the one who suggested it, cautiously. She had gotten to know Rhys, since Cleopatra and Antony were lovers. She was fond of him, and she wanted him. It was the first time she had wanted anyone else but him, and Olympos would have been jealous if he didn't agree with her. So he smiled and said that of course he wouldn't stop her from taking Rhys as her lover, he had no true claim to her.

 

He did, however, begin to seek out the soldier. He was curious to know if the man behind those eyes was as compelling as they were. And he was. They spoke of so many things, the difference between Greek and Roman culture, and also between both of those and his own tribe's ways back in Britannia. And then one day, Olympos would never be clear on how, he was with Iras and Rhys together.

 

After that, the three of them were lovers, partners, somehow making a whole together. Rhys laughed, saying that he'd never realized how much was missing before he met them, and Iras agreed. Olympos knew it too. As right as things had felt with Iras, now... Now they were better, somehow the addition of a third had made their already-strong bond that much stronger, that much more real.

 

But then had come Actium. And their world began to break apart. Rhys had died defending Alexandria, Olympos forcing himself to look at his lover's body with those eyes forever closed. And then, only a short few days later, he had been ordered by Octavian to Cleopatra's mausoleum, to find Cleopatra dead on top of her sarcophagus, Iras and Charmian slumped nearby. And both times, he had forced the screams back, his throat raw with them nonetheless.

 

And yet now, three days later, he can't regret a thing. Well, he can. He can regret how it ended, he can swallow back tears and screams and grief until he dies himself, but he cannot regret loving them. Some might; some might say that nothing is worth this level of pain. But he can't bring himself to feel the same way. What he had with them was amazing, and he will remember it. It will hurt, he's sure, for as long as he continues to live, but... There's nothing he would change, except the ending.

 

~ ~ ~

 

 _**“BP's dropping! We're losing him!** _ **_"_ **

 

* * *

 

_Tudor rose with her hair in curls_

_Will make you turn and stare_

_Try to steal a kiss at the bridge_

_Under a violet moon..._

 

_Fortune-teller, what do you see?_

_Future in a card_

_Share your secrets_

_Tell them to me_

_Under a violet moon_  – Under a Violet Moon, Blackmore's Night

 

**28 September 1543, Essex, England**

 

Will Stafford stands with his stepchildren, Henry and Catherine Carey, and his own daughter, Anne Stafford, as his wife is laid in her grave. Mary Boleyn Carey Stafford, the last of the infamous Boleyn family, except for her three children and her sister Anne's daughter, the Lady Elizabeth Tudor. He doesn't cry, simply stands there, dark eyes level and his expression blank. Alone again, and he feels like this has happened before. Of course, it has.

 

It wasn't always just the two of them. Once, two had been three, when Mary was the bride of another William. William Carey, the man Will served as steward of his household. William had been in love with his gorgeous new bride, not even caring about her sullied reputation as the mistress of the King of France. His “English mare”, King Francis had called her. And then Mary's father had shoved her into the bed of Henry VIII, King of England.

 

Will could clearly remember William's fury when that had happened. “And I can't do a damn thing about it! They're taking her away from me, ripping us apart, and making her a whore!”

 

There had been nothing Will could do except lay a comforting hand on William's shoulder. They were friends, these days; Will was of better blood than William but thanks to the treason of his kinsman the Duke of Buckingham, his family line was disgraced. So he felt allowed to comfort his official master. That did not prepare him for what happened next.

 

William turned his head to meet Will's eyes, and it had suddenly occurred to Will that they'd never been this close before. He also saw what he'd been trying to ignore for years, how something in the other man's gray eyes drew him in, as though he'd seen them before somewhere. They froze in their respective positions, William half-turned and Will with his hand on the other man's shoulder.

 

Before either of them had really registered it, one or both of them were moving forward, their lips crashing together. And a strange name was on the tip of Will's tongue that night, the two of them tangled together in the bed, but he swallowed it back. Because he couldn't understand where it had come from.

 

It was a sin, and a crime. They knew that. But they couldn't stop. It was as though they'd been waiting to discover this need for each other. And even when Henry tossed Mary aside, replacing her with her younger sister, the dark and dangerous Anne, they didn't stop. Then came the day when Mary walked in on them. Will would always remember the look in her eyes, shock that faded into something else. And her eyes... Like William's, they drew him, familiar somehow.

 

She wasn't bothered, after the immediate shock. “I've seen wilder in France, you know,” she told them hours later, the three of them sprawled nude over the bed. Will remembered how William had looked up, seen that Mary was not disgusted but intrigued, and then asked her with a smirk if she wanted to join them.

 

But William died. In the summer of 1527, the Sweat returned to England, an enemy no one could defeat. Mary was sent away with Will to escort her, and William only just managed to return to his family home before he died. Will held Mary as she cried for him, and swallowed his own tears. “I'll be here for you, Mary,” he whispered in her ear. “When you're ready, I'll be here. I'll always be here.”

 

He finally married her in 1532. They were wed in secret, and managed to keep it a secret for some time, before Mary fell pregnant and they had to confess. Banished from court by Mary's vindictive sister, who was now the Queen of England, they lived in the country together, in a small farmhouse. Until, of course, Anne's place became far less certain, and she needed anyone who might support her to be there.

 

They returned to court late in 1535, finding it much changed, shadowed by all the things that had happened. All the suffering that the King had put the court and country through, just so he could marry Mary's sister. Anne had not lived up to her part of the bargain, though, had not produced a son. And the vultures were circling.

 

When Anne was accused of adultery and witchcraft in May of 1536, Mary was desperate to help, even more so when her brother George was named as one of Anne's lovers. Even Will did not believe that – Anne, he felt, would do much to secure her position, but he did not think she would go that far. But he had to stop Mary from speaking out, pointing out harshly that all she would get for her pains would be to end up accused herself. “I know there are secrets, things that you never told me nor William, things you three Boleyns kept between yourselves. And you cannot risk them coming out now.”

 

“But they are my family, Will! Always, it has been the three of us! How can I turn my back on them now?”

 

“Because if you do not, you'll die beside them! Please, Mary, for our children, for me, please don't do this!”

 

In the end, she had said nothing, and he even believed she had forgiven him for making sure that she did not. They went to the executions, Mary saying that she had to, she had to be there. He didn't understand it, but he was there beside her, catching her when her knees gave out as the axe – or in Anne's case, the sword – fell.

 

He'd saved her from the executioner's blade, but he could not save her from the fever that had taken her away from him, taken her to William, leaving him alone. Will can't breathe through the pain, and he considers the fact that it doesn't really matter, if he commits one more sin. The priests would say he's been damned for a long time.

 

So he takes his horse out for one last ride, urging it to a jump that he knows is too much for its capabilities. They will think he was simply too reckless, grieving for his wife, that in the darkness he made a mistake. He  _is_  lost in grief for his wife, and for William, the scabbed-over wound of his death made fresh by the loss of Mary. But if all goes well, everyone will think he was a fool, and not realize that his death is a deliberate thing, because he cannot live alone. Henry and Catherine are adults, they will take care of their sister, his daughter. He can no longer be here, on this earth, not alone.

 

Flying through the air, the last thing he sees is not the stars in the sky or the woods gilded silver by moonlight, but a night at Hampton Court, standing on the sidelines and watching Mary dance with William, the two of them laughing and smiling. It's a memory, but at the last second it changes, and in his mind's eye they turn to him, each holding out a hand for him to take.

 

~ ~ ~

 

_**“Call time of dea – No, wait, we've got a pulse!”** _

 

* * *

 

_You used to captivate me_

_By your resonating light_

_Now I'm bound by the life you left behind_

_Your face, it haunts_

_My once pleasant dreams_

_Your voice, it chased away_

_All the sanity in me_

 

_These wounds won't seem to heal_

_This pain is just too real_

_There's just too much_

_That time cannot erase_  – My Immortal, Evanescence

 

**19 April 1865, Boston, Massachusetts**

 

James sits in the corner of the tavern, staring at the letter clutched in his right hand. He's not sure if it's drink or tears making his vision blur, and he doesn't know if he cares. Lizzie can't possibly be asking this of him from beyond the grave. No, it simply can't be happening.

 

It started because James' uncle owned a plantation in Virginia, and he'd been sent down to stay for a while. He'd gotten into some trouble at home – fights, for God's sake, that was all, and yet his parents acted as though he'd done something terrible – and they wanted him out of town for a while. So he traveled to Virginia, and within a week found himself bored to death at one of the traditional Southern cotillions.

 

“You look bored as hell, darlin',” a voice said, making James turn around. What surprised him wasn't so much the endearment as that the one using it was another man. He raised an eyebrow, getting only a smirk in response. For a moment he couldn't say anything, a shock running through him as gray eyes locked on his.

 

“I'm not used to your little parties,” James said, his tone sharp as he tried to calm himself. “And just who are you?”

 

“Name's Daniel, and you must be James, Mr. Carlisle's Yankee nephew.”

 

James nods, and they sit in silence for a few minutes before a lovely young woman with dancing brown eyes came over to them. Again, James felt for a moment as though someone had punched him in the stomach – and he knew how that felt. He wanted to get up and leave, even as Daniel introduced the woman as Elizabeth, his fiancee, but he didn't. Because a larger part of him wanted to stay. They talked for a little while, polite conversation, and James couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so relaxed. Which was ridiculous.

 

“Why don't you borrow Lizzie for a dance?” Daniel suggested. “It'll keep you from dying of boredom, and I don't mind sharing a little.”

 

“No, I – ” James began, only to be cut off by Lizzie.

 

“I'll thank you not to go handing me around like a doll, Daniel! As it happens, though, I certainly don't mind a turn around the floor with our visiting Yankee. Well, James?” She held out her hand, and smiling in spite of himself, James took it.

 

From then on, the three of them were all but inseparable. He'd never spent much time around couples before, finding it unpleasantly awkward. His good friend David had recently married a woman named Miranda, and as happy as he was for them, he felt out of place with the couple. But Daniel and Lizzie drew him in, made him part of their circle rather than someone outside it.

 

Then, three months into his stay, he was forced to spend time with his uncle and aunt, and when he looked for Lizzie and Daniel, they weren't there. Frowning, he went outside, finally finding them a good distance from the main house. They were twirling around in the moonlight, and for the first time James felt like an interloper. But he also felt even more drawn to them, as though seeing them like this...

 

He was in love with both of them. He'd reached this unsettling conclusion days ago, but told himself it didn't matter. He could still be their friend, couldn't he? But now, seeing them like this, it was different. It felt like someone stabbed him and is now driving the knife ever deeper. He turned to walk away, but only managed a few paces before a large hand closed around his wrist and he was pulled around to face Daniel.

 

“Look, I...”

 

“We saw you watching,” Daniel cut him off. “That look on your face...”

 

“Whatever you're thinking, I'm sure – ”

 

“I'm thinking that Lizzie's danced with you half a dozen times, and it's my turn.”

 

James had never known a relationship could be like this. Daniel and Lizzie were already supposed to marry, and they did. But they asked James to move in with them at their new house in Richmond – officially staying in the spare room, there to help Daniel set up the business he wanted to run. But he was really their lover, though of course he and Daniel did start the business. It was probably the strangest arrangement he could have ever imagined, but it worked. And they were happy.

 

But then he was summoned home. His father was ill, and even though his older brother was there and his mother didn't need any more help, James knew he should go home and offer support. Had he known what was going to happen, he probably would never have left, but he didn't, so...

 

The quarrel over slavery and states' rights finally broke, and South Carolina seceded from the Union. Other states followed, including Virginia. And James found himself shoved into a dark blue uniform knowing that Daniel would be donning a gray one. And his heart broke just a little.

 

They both survived until the Battle of Sayler's Creek. James would look back and almost choke on the bitter irony of it all. Because he hadn't even seen Daniel, through all the battles, though surely this wasn't the first time they'd been in the same fight. But then he did, their eyes locking, and James would never forgive himself for distracting Daniel at that crucial moment, giving one of his own comrades in navy the chance to stab one of the two people he loved with a bayonet. James didn't even remember running across to where Daniel had fallen, only that he'd gotten there to find him already gone, gray eyes vacant and glazed.

 

The war ended three days later. James, by pure chance, was a witness when Lee surrendered to Grant, and he felt like screaming. Three days. Just three days, if Daniel had... If... But that hadn't happened. Daniel was gone, and there was nothing to be done. And James couldn't even go to Lizzie, not in the aftermath of the surrender.

 

So it was a shock, when he got the letter he now holds. A letter from Lizzie, with a postscript from their neighbor in Richmond. Lizzie had a child, a daughter, nine months after he'd left to come home to Boston and see his father. It was there, between the lines, that she didn't know if Daniel or James was the father. Not that any of them would have cared.

 

But what breaks James' heart is the postscript. It was an accident, that was all. She fell down the stairs. But Lizzie's gone too, and James is left with this child, because Daniel's will says that he is the appointed guardian for the child.

 

He doesn't want to be a father to that child, not alone. But he doesn't have a choice, does he? He might have followed Daniel and Lizzie, the idea of that is alluring, but he can't. He's bound to this child, now, whether by blood or by love. He has no choice, but maybe he can make amends somehow by raising her. Because he feels that somehow, he should have been there. He should never have left, maybe if he hadn't left things would have been different. He would have been there to stand beside Daniel, and maybe Lizzie wouldn't have been so shaken by grief – because Daniel wouldn't be  _dead_ – that she fell.

 

Anyone else could tell him it's illogical, but James doesn't see it. All he knows is that he blames himself, and he always will.

 

~ ~ ~

 

_**“Christ, darling, why did you run off alone like this?" Large, blunt fingers comb through his hair. "Why the hell didn't you tell us?”** _

 

* * *

 

_What hurts the most_

_Was being so close_

_And having so much to say_

_And watching you walk away_

_And never knowing_

_What could have been_

_And not seeing that loving you_

_Is what I was trying to do_  – What Hurts The Most, Rascal Flatts

 

**21 April 1912, Washington D.C.**

 

Patrick finds it shockingly easy to get in to see Senator William Alden Smith, but then again, he did say that he has information about the sinking of the  _R.M.S. Titanic_. Which he does. He was there, after all. And he's not going to let the White Star Line get away with covering this up. They could have stopped it. The ship was supposed to be unsinkable and even though obviously someone had made a mistake with that, it still shouldn't have gone over that easily. And there weren't enough lifeboats, he didn't care what the law said about it.

 

He can't think about it, not in too much depth, or he might start throwing things.

 

“According to all records, Mr. Callahan, you were a crew member on the  _Titanic_ , but resigned your place with the White Star Line the second the  _Carpathia_  docked in New York.”

 

“That would be correct, sir.”

 

“May I ask why?”

 

“Because what happened could have been avoided.” Patrick leans forward in his chair, dark eyes intent and angry. “I know they're lying at the hearings, the White Star employees. They've probably been threatened with dismissal if they're honest. But I no longer work for them; I don't care.”

 

“I get the feeling you wouldn't care if you did still work for them,” the Senator murmurs. He knows the look of an angry man, and this Patrick Callahan is  _furious_. “So, tell me, what really happened then?”

 

There's so much Patrick can say, but Senator Smith only wants the facts. So that's what he gives him, his mind all the while focused on something much more important to him – the reason why he's doing this.

 

He wasn't really supposed to mingle with the passengers when he was off-duty, but Patrick still had a tendency to visit the third-class lounge. Brian O'Leary, a friend of his back when he was a boy in Dublin, was a passenger, and it was good to see Bri again after several years. His old friend didn't spend time with him for long the second time he visited, though; he was too busy charming a pretty French girl. So Patrick was about to leave, when a petite redhead blocked his way.

 

“Stay for a dance?” she asked him, brown eyes dancing as she grinned wickedly at him.  _What the hell_ , Patrick thought, and swept her into a set.

 

“I'm Moira,” she told him.

 

“Patrick.”

 

“Well, Patrick, by the uniform I'd say you're one of the sailors, hmm?”

 

“That's right. It's my first voyage, actually.”

 

“Like the ship herself then?”

 

That had been exactly what Patrick had thought, oddly enough. He grinned at her, more than a little amused by the fact that this total stranger had basically read his mind. The moment was broken when someone came up to them. “Well, Moira, I'd be a little hurt by the fact that you're ignoring me tonight, but I can't fault your choice of companion.”

 

Moira threw her head back and laughed, especially when she saw the bewildered look on Patrick's face. “Patrick, this is Matthew. He's a terribly rude American, I'm afraid.”

 

“She's right, I'm horrible,” Matthew said good-naturedly. “Patrick, hmm? Nice to meet you. So, is this ship really unsinkable, like they say?”

 

“Well, I'm not a shipwright, but Mr. Andrews is a genius, so if any ship could be unsinkable, I'd say one he designed would be it.” Patrick was aware he had at least a mild case of hero worship where Thomas Andrews was concerned, but that was understandable. He was an Irishman, and this ship was his design. Patrick wanted to do the same thing, his heart wasn't in sailing. He'd rather design the ships. Which was why he'd drummed up the nerve to approach the shipwright, who had been surprisingly kind to him, spending a good half-hour talking to him before Patrick had to return to his duties.

 

“Well, that's a relief then – I never did learn to swim,” Moira commented.

 

“I learned, but I'm not exactly good at it,” Matthew added with a grin. “I suppose you, as a sailor, are very good.”

 

“The hope is that I never have to test it, but yes, I'm good at it,” Patrick said, with a wry smile. “I should probably be going.”

 

“Do you have to get back to work? If so, I hope I didn't get you into trouble,” Moira asked.

 

“No, I'm off for the night, but...”

 

“So stay and talk with us then,” Matthew said. “I can promise you'll have more fun here than in your bunk.”

 

So he stayed, the three of them talking and dancing late into the night. They even danced together, Moira and Patrick teaching Matthew how to dance a jig. He wasn't particularly good at it, but his enthusiasm made up for lack of skill. Besides, they were all having too much fun to care.

 

For the rest of the voyage, Patrick was in the steerage area when not on duty. The night of April 14, they were alone in the room Matthew shared with several other men, taking the chance to spend time together away from the crowd of people in the lounge. Patrick was tense, and the other two noticed. “What's wrong, Patrick?” Moira asked.

 

“What? Oh, nothing.”

 

“You're hardly paying any attention to us, my friend. Something's wrong,” Matthew disagreed. Patrick sighed.

 

“It's nothing, just... I overheard Ismay – he's one of the top men at White Star – urging Captain Smith to go faster, even though there's also been reports of icebergs from several ships in the area. The  _Californian's_  another ship on the same route as us right now, more or less, and they've stopped for the night.”

 

“Why haven't we?” Moira wanted to know.

 

“Ismay said something about not wanting us to be late, because the press will make the company look bad.”

 

Matthew was about to say something when the ship jerked, hard. There was a loud screeching sound and all three of them covered their ears.

 

“What the hell was that?” Matthew demanded.

 

“I don't know.” But Patrick was sure he did.

 

“You don't think we hit an iceberg, do you?” Moira asked.

 

“I can't say, but in case we did... I should go, if we've hit anything they'll want all hands.” He stood to go, stopped by Moira's hand gripping his wrist. She kissed him, light and quick.

 

“I'm sure everything's fine,” Patrick said, unnerved by the fact that she'd decided to do that now, but he was even more unsettled when Matthew pulled him into a hug, his lips brushing the crown of Patrick's head. Patrick gave them one last look before running out, and he knew that all three of them were aware, this wasn't a good sign. Because even if the ship didn't sink, from the sounds of it she'd taken damage. And everyone knew the third-class area would be the last thing on the top people's minds, and that the crew would also be in danger. If things were wrong. And while nothing seemed to be wrong, there was something... off about the ship now, as if the floor were tilting just a little.

 

He ran from the room to where he habitually reported for duty, trying his best to ignore the part of him that knew he'd never see either of them again.

 

It wasn't long before everyone knew, the ship really was going down. Patrick couldn't believe it when they started lowering the lifeboats only half full, and he wanted to scream at the officers, demand to know what the hell they were thinking. Because they knew, all the crew knew, that there weren't enough lifeboats. It was hoped that, even in the event of a disaster, the ship would last long enough for help to arrive, but... The way she was tilting, Patrick didn't think Titanic would last the night.

 

He was only slightly surprised when Second Officer Lightoller ordered him to man one of the boats, but he took advantage of the situation, insisting on filling his boat before being sent over the edge. The band was still playing as they went down to the water – Patrick would later look back and remember that they played until the ship actually tipped up into the air. He would never be able to hear any of the songs again without being thrown back into that night.

 

Matthew and Moira didn't make it. He'd known it all along, but hadn't wanted to believe it. He'd clung to hope until the next day, after they'd been picked up by the  _Carpathia_. He checked the passenger list, and their names weren't there. An old woman nearby was sobbing, asking, “Isn't there another passenger list? There has to be another list.”

 

“I'm sorry, ma'am, there is no other list,” a member of the  _Carpathia's_  crew was forced to tell her.

 

“Maybe he's on another ship.” You could hear the pleading, the desperation in the woman's voice, and Patrick turned away, walking over to the rail and leaning against it. He shouldn't feel this horrible; he'd only known them for a few days. So why did it feel like his heart had been ripped from his chest, and why did the pain feel so damn familiar?

 

Of course, Patrick leaves all this out as he tells Senator Smith what really happened, first just the two of them in the man's office, and then in front of everyone at the hearing. He tells everything he remembers, how the lifeboats were sent off only half full, and sometimes even less than that, about how all the warnings had been ignored. Most damning, he mentions the conversation he overheard between Ismay and Smith.

 

Patrick doesn't know if what he says will make any difference, but he's done what he can.  _Next time I'll do better_ , he thinks later that night, in a liquor-induced haze. He can see their faces in his mind's eye, but it's their eyes that hold him, the eyes that never change, over years and lifetimes and...

 

 _I won't let you die again_ , he promises the images of them inside his head, before he chases them away with another glass of whiskey. It's the first night he will chase away his ghosts with alcohol, but it won't be the last.

 

~ ~ ~

 

_**“Arthur, you have to wake up.” A hand, smaller than his own, is gripping his tightly. “It's not right like this, we need you to come back to us. Please.”** _

 

* * *

 

_And maybe I'll find out_

_A way to make it back someday_

_To watch you_

_To guide you_

_Through the darkest of your days_

 

_If a great wave shall fall_

_And fall upon us all_

_Well, then I hope there's someone out there who_

_Can bring me back to you_

 

_If I could, then I would_

_I'll go wherever you will go_

_Way up high or down low_

_I'll go wherever you will go_  – Wherever You Will Go, The Calling

 

**23-30 November 2011, Austin, Texas**

 

Eames is the first one to realize something's up, at the end of the job he'd been stuck going on. “Eames, mate, did you know there's a hit out on your point man?” Reynolds, the old friend he'd owed, asks, frowning.

 

Eames stares at him for a minute, then shakes his head. He, Arthur, and Ari have tried to keep their relationship quiet, knowing that the best leverage on any of them is one or both of the other two. So he keeps calm when he asks, even though he can feel his heart racing. “No, I didn't. You wouldn't happen to know why?”

 

“The Scarpetta job?”

 

 _What?_  If Arthur's got a price on his head for that, they all should. “And it's just him? Not me, or our architect?”

 

“Yeah, just him. Why, were you on that job too?”

 

“We were all... Look, Reynolds, the job's over, you don't need me for what's left, right?”

 

“I don't think so.”

 

“Good, because I have to go.

 

He takes the next flight to Providence, and sure enough, Ariadne's as unaware of the situation as he is. They call Cobb, who doesn't know anything, and neither does Yusuf. Arthur hasn't contacted anyone, he's dropped off the grid completely. And, apparently, erased all mention of Eames or Ariadne in connection with the Scarpetta job. He's covered his tracks as well, but not nearly so thoroughly. It's clear what he's doing, setting himself up as a distraction so that Scarpetta's people will only go after him.

 

The question is, why? The three of them could handle this better than Arthur can on his own, so why would he do something so bloody stupid?

 

~ ~ ~

 

_**Arthur's never understood the dreams he gets, dreams so painfully clear that he'd swear they're memories and not figments of his imagination. But that doesn't make any sense. He's a teenage foster kid in Philadelphia, not a Greek in Ancient Egypt, or a member of the Tudor court, or... The Titanic thing can be explained by the fact that he has an almost unhealthy fascination with the story of the doomed ship. There's something about the unfairness of it, how if they'd been properly equipped, or if the Californian had actually responded to the distress call, everything might have been different. The Civil War bit he writes off as spending too much time studying for his U.S. history midterm.** _

 

_**The older he gets, the more frequent – and occasionally graphic – they become. By the time he's introduced to dreamshare, he's having them almost every night. Luckily, they don't affect his lucid dreaming skills – he's not sure how he'd explain that one. He's been exposed to enough weird shit now, thanks to his job, that he knows what the dreams are. Of all the things to be real, reincarnation has to be one of them. Arthur doesn't know what to do with this knowledge now that he has it, so he ignores it.** _

 

_**Then the soldiers are brought in, and he meets SAS Lieutenant Eames. Meeting the other man's gray eyes feels like a sucker punch to the gut. Names run through his head – Rhys, William, Daniel, Matthew – until his head spins.** _

 

_**He can't avoid Eames when they're assigned to work together, nor can he stop the way they work together so easily, like they've known each other forever. Because in a way, they have. He doesn't think the Brit knows, though; Arthur can't decide if that makes things easier or harder. Because he has to stay away from Eames this time, at least romantically. He'll keep an eye on the man, but he doesn't think he can... He couldn't bear to go through what's already happened so many times. And she – whoever she'll be this time around – isn't even here yet.** _

 

_**Eames kisses him the day that the program is shut down, and Arthur is secretly relieved. Because he wouldn't be able to stay away from the other man – despite his friends, he's still lonely in a way he knows will only change if he gives in – if they weren't being split up.** _

 

~ ~ ~

 

They can't track Arthur, so they track Scarpetta's men, which is how they find the abandoned factory in Austin. Eames takes out most of the men, though Ari gets a few shots in before she goes looking for Arthur. Eames is cleaning up the mess when Ariadne screams for him. “Sean! Get over here!”

 

He comes running, finding her kneeling next to Arthur, who is sprawled unconscious on the floor. His left leg's at a funny angle, and he's chalk-white. There aren't any serious external wounds, but Eames knows that doesn't always mean anything. Ariadne's calling Arthur's name, trying to get him to wake up. Eames tells her to call 911, his voice clipped and harsh to hide his own growing panic, because Arthur doesn't respond  _at all_  to what Ariadne's doing, and he should.

 

He takes care of the rest of the mess quickly, before the paramedics get there, but he and Ariadne aren't allowed into the ambulance. Something about “family members only” and this time it's Ariadne who's the calming influence, laying a hand on Eames' arm when he's about to start snarling and cursing at the EMTs. She asks which hospital they're going to and then they follow the ambulance there.

 

In the hospital, it's touch-and-go. No one will tell them anything for hours, and when they do, it's bad news. Three broken ribs, a broken leg, various cuts and lacerations, a serious concussion, and the worst injury, a ruptured spleen. The doctor is honest with them, saying that the last injury very nearly killed him, and that between that and passing out with a concussion as bad as the one he had... “We've stabilized him as best we can, but right now we just can't say if he'll recover.”

 

Sitting there in Arthur's hospital room, Eames can't stop playing with his totem, hoping it will suddenly change in his hands, telling him that this is a dream after all. Ariadne's rolling her bishop between her palms, and he knows she's wishing the same thing.

 

But wishes can only become a reality in your dreams, and they're wide awake.

 

~ ~ ~

 

_**When Arthur sees Eames again, the man tries to flirt with him, obviously thinking that now they're both criminals Arthur will have no excuses left. He doesn't, but he has a reason. A damn good reason, and it keeps him immune to Eames' overtures. He can't go through that again. Eames calls him “darling” sometimes, and it only reminds him of Daniel, of “darlin'” said in a different accent entirely.** _

 

_**But then there's the Fischer job, and Cobb goes off to see Miles and get a new architect. He walks in with a petite brunette who looks confused, but interested. Arthur meets her eyes and his heart stops. Her name this time is Ariadne, and he remembers how the tale of the mythic Ariadne had always been one of Iras' favorite stories.** _

 

_**After inception, he knows forming a team with Ariadne and Eames is a bad idea, because of what could happen, but he can't help himself. He's never felt so comfortable, so safe, with anyone else, and he thinks of how easily Moira, Matthew, and Patrick fit together, of what they could have been. When Ariadne and Eames start sleeping together – they're discreet but not quite as good at hiding it as they think – he tells himself that's fine. That's how it should be. William and Mary were together before Will, Daniel and Lizzie were engaged before James came along. He can be their friend, and watch out for them, and avoid the pain of the last four lifetimes.** _

 

_**Only he can't stay away. When they ask him to join them, he tries to fight it. He says no, tells them that they're drunk and just want someone to spice things up for the night. He appreciates the offer, it's very flattering, but it will make their professional relationship awkward. Eames tells him he's babbling and Ariadne shuts him up with her mouth on his, pulling back to whisper in his ear that he's being ridiculous, that they love him too, and it's all three of them, it's supposed to be the three of them, doesn't he know that?** _

 

_**He knows, he wants to scream, and he knows how it ends, and he can't let that happen. But they won't let him go peacefully, and he can't bear to fight them. He's been so lonely without them, he can't stand it.** _

 

_**But he tells himself that it will never happen again. What's happened before, he'll stop it, even if he has to die in their place this time. It's a small price to pay.** _

 

~ ~ ~

 

Ariadne falls asleep with her head on Eames' shoulder, and she dreams. She dreams of a city of marble, of a library and a lighthouse long since lost, a colossal palace, and following her sister into death by way of a snakebite. She dreams of the royal courts of England and France, of being pushed into royal whoredom and then finding not one but two men who would love her despite that. It's the men that are the constant, brown eyes and gray eyes that stay the same even when their faces change. They're there in 1800s Virginia, or the third-class lounge on the Titanic. One of them is there in the icy waters of the Atlantic, but the other one had to leave, to go do his duty.

 

That is the constant, she realizes as she dreams. They don't stay together. Rhys had to fight, she had to go with Cleopatra. William and Will... There was nothing anyone could have done, fever can't be fought, or at least it couldn't be then. If James had never gone to his family, they would never have been on different sides, and Patrick... All that would have happened had he stayed was that they would have died together, she knows that, but somehow she also knows he was lost without them.

 

Because it's always the brown eyes that look lost, their owner always the one left behind. And she wakes up knowing where she sees those eyes in this lifetime. “Oh God,  _Arthur_...” she whispers when she wakes up, her voice cracking. Because she knows why now. One look at Eames tells her that so does he.

 

“It's the first time I've dreamed in seven years,” he says, his voice rough.

 

“Do you think it really happened?”

 

“I don't know, love, but if we're all having the same dreams...” And it makes sense. Arthur's always been oddly protective of them. He's usually subtle about it, but they know him well enough – better than they'd thought, as it happens – to pick up on it anyway.

 

“He did it so it wouldn't be us this time,” she says, her voice shaking.

 

“And this is better?” Eames snaps, his own voice unsteady. “It's supposed to be better for him to die than for us to? This isn't any better, it's just different!”

 

“I thought it was.” Arthur's voice is weak, and it's been five days, they'd almost given up hope of ever hearing that voice again. He's looking at them and he's so calm, as though coming within an inch of death doesn't bother him at all. And, Ariadne thinks bleakly, maybe it doesn't.

 

“Well, I'm sorry, Arthur, but it's not.” Relief is tempering Eames' anger somewhat, but it's clear he wants this said now, when there's a better chance Arthur won't have the strength to argue as much. “How is it any better for us to lose you than it was for you to lose us all those times? It's not, don't you get that?”

 

“I couldn't let it happen again, don't you understand?” Arthur sounds lost again, and Ariadne can't stand it. She can't stand the pain, the lifetimes of grief adding up and putting shadows in Arthur's eyes, or the frustration that has Eames pacing the room, trying not to lose his temper.

 

“Neither of you see it, do you?” she says, quietly. They both look at her, and she continues. “What goes wrong is that we split up. Every time, except when it was William, Mary, and Will, and what went wrong there is illness. We couldn't have stopped that. But the rest of it... We should have stayed together.”

 

“But we couldn't,” Eames points out. “We had responsibilities, we had to...”

 

“I know that, but what about now?”

 

“Our only responsibilities are to each other,” Arthur says, realization dawning on his face when she looks at him.

 

“Exactly. Which is why you should have told us; you nearly got yourself killed, Arthur, and that's because you took off alone. That's where we mess up.”

 

Eames comes back over to them, sitting down in the chair next to hers. “So no more self-sacrificing heroics? I like the sound of that.”

 

Arthur frowns at him. “I did what I thought I had to do.”

 

“And you nearly died for it, so don't expect me to be particularly accepting of 'what you had to do' anytime soon,” Eames retorts.

 

“Both of you stop it,” Ariadne says, a fond note belying the sternness of her tone. “I didn't just mean that for Arthur, Sean. I meant it for all of us. We have to trust each other, and stick together. That's the mistake we keep making, so this time we just won't make it.”

 

She's right, and they know it. And it's what they all want anyway, to be together properly for the first time. It's the only time they haven't had to hide it somehow, at least not from the people who matter. Keeping it quiet on the dreamshare circuit is just good sense, but those they care about all know what they are to each other. And none of them are helpless, all of them can hold their own. If they stay together, it'll be fine.

 

“Whatever happens,” she tells them, “we'll be together. And that's all that matters, isn't it?”


End file.
